A fifteen-year-old boy stood in the heart of a quiet training field, his figure as still as stone. His jet-black hair fluttered faintly in the wind, and his eyes, deep, abyss-like, reflected no emotion, only a calm.
In his hands, a sliver color sword shimmered under the pale sunlight, its edge sharp enough to slice through air itself.
He moved.
Fluid yet precise, the boy executed his sword forms with unwavering discipline. Each swing was measured, sharp, and deadly strikes honed not just with talent, but with practice. He cut through the air with ease, the movements growing swifter, heavier, until the very wind began to bend around his blade.
After a final spin, he raised the sword overhead.
His muscles tensed.
Then a downward slash.
The strike carved through the air like a thunderclap. A powerful gust exploded outward, scattering leaves and dust in a sudden burst. The grass around him bent under the force, and the very ground whispered of the strength behind that single cut.
